Eowyn
by LitRaptor42
Summary: The death of the Lady Ithilien.


Believe it or not, I pretty much dreamed this whole thing. Since there's no records left as to how Eowyn (or Faramir, for that matter) died, I figured what the heck. I am not related to Tolkien, ergo I do not own anything related to his works, blah blah blah disclaimer.

* * *

I saw her fall as if from a great distance. Her sword slipped ever so slowly from her numb fingers, point chunking into the earth. "My lady!" I tried to cry out, but my voice failed me.

A searing heat overcame me, and my legs folded beneath me, tensing for the spring. The man who had slain my lady Ithilien turned to me now, face already red with the blood his fallen foe had drawn from him. His eyes sprang wide in fear, and he saw his own doom written in the soft lines of a woman's face. Senseless of my own actions, I raised my sword and slew the man. Blood gushed from his wound, and he fell without a sound.

A bright light surrounded me as I panted, body numb; then the world rushed back at me, the pain of grief splashing my heart with acid. I dropped my sword and fell to my knees. "My lady--my lady!"

Her face was white, her lips unnaturally red, but she smiled at me. "You have... have done well... to slay him, Doria. He was... a great king among his people. They... they will flee now."

I raised her up against my breast, so that she could see the sights and hear the sounds of the fading battle. My lord Ithilien was laughing--_laughing_--as the broad side of his sword met with a man's head, a _clong_ sound resounding through the once-beautiful glade; my lady smiled to watch him. "See? We are victorious. A small... skirmish only."

Her eyes closed, and I knew that I had but a moment. "My lord! My lord Faramir!" I cried, with all my might, knowing that the power of my small voice could be risked.

He turned to hear the voice of his lady's handmaid. His face changed; grim was my lord's customary expression when in battle, and this fade from unusual joy into uttermost grief was most terrible to witness. Swiftly he came to our side, and respectfully released me from my place of honor. I crouched at her feet, glad only to be nearby, unbanished.

"My lady?" he said softly, into her ear, and she looked up into his face. Now the grief had faded, replaced in expression of tenderness. Gentle my lord ever was at his wife's side, but her wounds were mortal, and the air was tense with the smell of her blood; his air was summoned not without a great degree of self-control.

"My lord," she replied, softly. His face wavered, but did not break. She smiled gently. "My love, we are victorious."

"Yes, my lady. They are routed; the pass is ours once more."

"Gondor prevails," she murmured, mouth curving mockingly. Even dying, her continual jest with her husband remained. My lord Faramir dipped his head, as did I, our tears beginning to get the better of us. She spoke again. "My lord—I ask one last thing of you, only."

"Anything, my lady," he answered, face white.

"I wish to die a clean death. Theodred, my cousin, suffered for days before passing. I do not wish to suffer the same fate." Her hand trembled as she extended it to his sword, sheathed; there was no tremor in her grip, though, as she drew it from his belt, shaped hilt towards him. "Do me this last honour."

My lord Ithilien stared at the sword; his grey eyes were blank, all the joy of the skirmish faded, even his grief drained. When his hand rose to meet hers, it shook badly, as if it were he who had received the mortal wound. "My lady… I cannot. My hands fail me even as we speak of it." He bowed his head, and finally his voice broke. "Eowyn…"

I started; never had my lord addressed my lady thus before his men.

She knew, and placed her free hand upon his face, answering in kind. "Faramir, my love. My time in this world is ending; would you hold me as I am sped on my way?" There was a brief moment, then my lord nodded.

Her face turned toward me, the servant. "Doria; take up your master's sword."

Without hesitation, I leaned forward and took the sword from her weakening hand. My lord Ithilien remained silent, only cradling her firmly. She took his hand in hers, and his face bent, his lips meeting hers without sound; the soldiers around us, almost lost in the story, looked suddenly away. "I await you in the future, my friends," she said, and closed her eyes.

Herugrim's point was ever sharp; there was no effusion of blood or mistake as I thrust the blade through my lady's heart. Her eyes remained closed, but a vision of peace came over her face as she breathed in once more, then passed into the next realm.


End file.
